Assassin
by Your Sweet Escape
Summary: Sometimes it's not the supernatural that wants to kill you.
1. Chapter 1

**Alright. So I'd like to start by saying that I own nothing you recognize. Nor will I ever. But if Dean is ever on the auction block, I call dibs. **

**This is kind of an expieriment in my writting style. If it's confusing or you hate, please, tell me. It'll get a little more in depth as it goes on (I think...I hope...) so, hopefully it works now.**

**And here's the deal. Three reviews per chapter to continue because this one's getting entered in a scholarship thing and it needs to be good! Please and thank you!**

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She spots him over the sinister rhythm coming through the loudspeakers. He's dressed nicely, not too noticeable, but enough class so that he stands out from the grinding crowd. This is not the first time she's wondered about a mark, nor will it be the last, but her job is not to question. The bass pounding in her veins serves as a reminder. 

His name is Evan McKee. He is a twenty-six, blonde haired, hazel eyed man, and head of one of the largest recording labels in the country. He has a house in New York, one in Las Vegas, one in Malibu, and one in Hollywood. His favorite color is green, and he has a pit-bull named Gus. He works midnight to midnight, except for Thursday. Thursday he goes to every club within a one hundred mile radius, making sure his hits are being played.

It was eleven-twenty pm Thursday night, and she had a job to do. Rubbing her glossed lips together, she pushes off the wall that has been supporting her surveillance for the past few minutes and sticks to the shadows, making her way slowly towards him. She can feel the looks she's getting as she passes those the dim lights also harbor. Lust. Anger. Fascination. They're all tangible as she comes closer and closer to the man, all building up until she's close enough to see the veins in his neck, and…He turns, practically running into her. Sputters an apology, clearly caught up in the cleavage her dress reveals. Introduces himself, hoping to make a good impression. Asks her to dance, obviously dying to touch her. She smiles, accepts the apology, bats her eyelashes at his name, and presses herself against him. This one was too easy.

The charade is kept up for a few dance mixes (two his). In a flurry of 'I-have-to-go's, and 'follow-me-I-know-a-place's, she gets him outside, in an alley a few down from the bouncing club, and his tongue down her throat for a few short seconds before he's on the ground. Blood pools from a tiny hole in his forehead and stains his Armani suit. She sidesteps the puddle, shoves the small pistol back into it's holster on her thigh, and walks back onto the street. The funeral march her heels click out echoes in the alleyway.

XXX

She's good and she knows it. That makes her a little cocky from time to time, like when she accidentally slipped out a back door that turned out to be a connecting door for another apartment. Or the time she poisoned some Joe and left the bottle on the kitchen counter. But, overall, she was good. Just like she had been trained.

Looking at herself now though, it's hard to believe. The tiny motel bathroom is filled with steam, and she has scratched herself clean of the quaking music and dark night. In the harsh lighting her hair carries streaks of red, steaks of the blood she's spilled, but she stops herself from thinking about that. She can't think about that because when she does, it all complies until she can't breath. Until she won't breath. That's how all the greats do it though, right? Do what they do, step on who they have to, don't think about it, and get a great night's rest? A good night's rest is just what she needs.

She quickly slips on a pair of cotton shorts and a t-shirt, makes sure both a gun and knife are in easy reach, and slips under the thick blankets of the hotel bed.

She needs a vacation. No one has called her to take care of a job. No one has called her for anything the past couple of weeks. She checks her cell phone. Batteries still good. Maybe no one would call her. Maybe her name has been forgotten. Maybe she could get some rest…..

She is jarred awake by a drift of cold air that seeps into her skin. Don't move. Don't breathe. She grabs her knife tightly, her body tenses.

"Not tonight, girl."

The knife is flung out of her hand, and she is thrown against a wall. And held there. By no one.

"I was told you were the best. That no one could get the jump on you. Well," a dark chuckle permeates the room, "I guess that doesn't include me." A man materializes out of the darkness. He snaps his fingers and the lights flick on. She cringes against the brightness. "My name is Azazel, but that sounds so stuffy, don't you agree?"

She shifts her weight against what is holding her as much as she could, which is very little, and holds her chin high. Whatever he's doing here, he isn't going to get the pleasure of seeing her struggle.

"Of course you agree." He sits down in overstuffed chair and props his feet up on a cheap, wooden desk next to her laptop. "Why don't you call me, hmm, Al. That's a good, generic name. And what's yours, again?"

She clenches her fists. She refuses to deal with him.

"Eve. A good name, too." He sighs as if content. "Listen, Eve, I'll let you down on the condition that you don't try and kill me. You can't do it, and it's been a long day." He flicks his hand and she drops to her feet. "Skill," he nods, "I can see it. I have a rather challenging proposition for you."

"You broke into my room." It is the first thing she's said, and he seems please by her choice of topic.

"I did. Although, I wouldn't call it 'breaking,' it was more-"

"Only you."

"Only me."

She steps closer to him. "How did you do that?"

"We don't all need a lock pick to get where we need to be."

"How did you hold me there?" She gestures to the wall, "You didn't touch me."

He grins. It's a sick, seductive grin that draws her in. He can teach her. He can teach her more than even Carrie can. And Carrie taught her everything. "You aren't scared."

It's a statement. It doesn't need answering. "How?"

Another flick of his hand and her knife is floating in midair in between them. "I possess certain talents."

"Talents you can teach?" She is no longer concerned with the stranger in her room. In fact, she can't seem to remember when she was. It is like talking to an old friend.

He seems delighted by her questions, by her attitude, and he gestures to the bed in front of him. She sits down. "Talents I can teach to someone worthy. Your ring?"

She pulls it off her finger and places it in his outstretched hand. It is nothing but sliver molded into the shape of a snake with garnet eyes that winds itself around her finger, but the moment the metal warms to his touch, it starts to hiss and slither. She watches in awe, and holds out her hand as he places the tiny reptile back in it. The snake slithers its way around her finger and once again becomes cold metal. She's hooked.

"Would you like to learn?"

"Yes."

"Good." He sits upright, "But I need your talents first."

'Who?" She doesn't even think about the question. Doesn't have to. It's always 'who.'

"A boy with the name Winchester. He harbors something I need. Something I want. I want him gone."

"Give me a location and twenty-four hours."

Azazel chuckles, "No, I want it slow and drawn out. I want him to be betrayed, hurt, to suffer."

"How?"

"How else?" He reaches out to grasp a strand of her hair. It curls around his finger like the snake around hers, copper like silver. "He is prone to lust. Turn it to love. Break his heart, Eve. Break his heart and then break whatever else you like."

She looks up to find her reflection yellowed in his eyes. "What are you?"

His grin spooks shivers down her spine. "Do you question the devil?"

"If I ever meet him." She can hold her own.

"I'll send him your regards."


	2. Chapter 2

**I don't own. Enough said. **

**Thanks you all so much for the interest! It really makes my day to know this is decent! Keep it up, please!!! As previously stated, three reviews per chapter, please. **

**The song is "City" by Sara Bareilles. **

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His name was Dean Winchester. He was a hunter of…demons. I have trouble wrapping my mind around the concept, even after Azazel explains everything – the coming war, the youngest Winchester's part in it, how without the youngest the world would fall. It makes me smile to think I was doing some good. Saving the world, and all it cost is one man.

XXX

Dean Winchester is twenty-eight. No pets. No family outside of his brother. He drives a black sixty-seven Chevy Impala, and is wanted for murder in Louisiana. I kind of like him, but this is not the time for that. The last piece of information Azazel told me was that I would find him in a bar. But I decided I wasn't going to find him. He was going to find me.

XXX

There isn't a bar where I find them. But there is a small night club. It serves beer. It'll do. It's hiring singers.

It's almost crazy to think I would be hired, and I almost don't apply, but how else will I make an impression? I've done the low-shirt-short-skirt job before, and the men never remember me. Or they wouldn't. If they lived. This situation calls for a certain finesse. I finesse I've never tried, to be sure, but I'll do it. I have to do it. I want to learn, to know, to understand. Just looking at my ring gives me chills. I want that kind of power. Who wouldn't.

I am surprised when the manager told me I can start the next night. I haven't had to sing in so long, and lying on my bed in yet another foreign hotel room gives me too much time to think about that. I haven't done a lot of anything recently. All my marks have been younger men, and all were swayed by flesh rather than skill. It's nice to have a challenge. Nice to have a change of pace. Maybe I won't become so bored this time. Maybe I'll actually enjoy-

My phone rings. The number is out of state, but I know who it is. It's always the same.

"Carrie."

"Eve. You haven't called."

"I haven't needed to." There is a silence on the other end of the phone, and I can see Carrie fuming. She doesn't like my independence. She never will.

"How did you last one go."

"Quickly." No need to entertain her with details. She's done the same thing a million times over.

"Good. I have another for you." Hamlet would be complaining about another rub. Carrie has a no nonsense tone, and I worry that she won't understand. I'm not giving her a chance.

"I don't need another."

"As long as there is one, you need one."

"I have one."

"You what?"

"I'm in Utah."

"Why?"

"I was approached by a…man last night. We came to an agreement."

"He saw you?"

"Yes."

"We don't operate that way, Eve." What she should have said was she didn't operate that way. Clients called a restricted number. Left a message with details. Carrie called back if we were interested. We never saw them. They never saw us. The mark was dead in twenty-four hours. All for a mere three hundred thousand. It's a good system. It never fails. I'm branching out.

"I'll call when I'm done."

"Eve don't hang-" I hang up on her. I don't need the criticism and the fatigue that comes from an argument with her. I also learned long ago that she will win. Carrie always wins.

I sit my phone on the ornate nightstand next to the bed. It looks like it belongs there. The brilliant red of the metal against the deep chocolate of the mahogany fits in some twisted fashion. I probably should burn it. The phone. The nightstand too. I fall asleep with flames dancing in my head. There are worse nightmares.

XXX

The small club is packed as I walk in. Who knew this many people lived in such a pointless town. And why is there dependency on alcohol so great? Already, numerous bottles and glasses line the sleek granite of the bar. The manager spots me, hurries over, "You be ready in five." I don't like commands, but I refrain. I need this.

Until the five minutes pass, I take a seat in one of the high barstools. It gives me a good view of the room and the door. I'll see him.

The girl that's singing is slightly off key. I have taken voice lessons since I was old enough to babble, and the dissonance bothers me. A lot about this place bothers me. There a cracks in the ceiling that threaten to swallow me whole, cracks in the floor that burn my feet through the soles of my boots, and shimmering lights that do not create the effect of an intimate and romantic setting. Now I know why everyone is drinking.

The door opens and reveals two men. Is it them? The lighting makes it impossible to see. Someone grabs my shoulder. Immediately, I am on my feet, facing the stranger, fingers playing on my thigh through the thin, black fabric of my dress. But it's just the manager, hands open in front of her, murmuring an apology. I have no time for this. He motions to the stage. "What are you singing?" he asks. I don't know. I ask the pianist to follow. She agrees.

"A new treat for everyone," the manager degrades me with his introduction, "From the fingers of God himself. Eve."

I don't like it, and he will know it, but now I have a job to do. What do I sing?

"_There's a harvest each Saturday night. At the bars filled with perfume and hitching a ride._"

One of the two men claim my empty seat. I'm still unsure. The piano's music joins my own. _"A place you could stand for one night and get gone. And it's clear this conversation ain't doing a thing cause these boys only listen to me when I sing," _

The one left standing stares at me. It's him. I cannot tell from his physical appearance, but it's something in his eyes. Something strong and possessive._ "And I don't feel like singing tonight all the same songs." _He leans forward, says something to the man in the chair, and starts walking toward the stage. There is an empty table close to the side. It's no longer empty. His eyes are a strange mix of blue and green.

"_Here in these deep city lights. Girl could get lost here tonight. I'm finding every reason to be gone. There's nothing here to hold on to. Could I hold you?" _If there's one thing every girl knows it is that eye contact is the key to any situation. That fact is intensified as I catch his glance. One of my hands curl around the aging microphone, the other around the hem of my dress. Just a little more skin.

"_The situation's always the same. You've got your wolves in their clothes whispering Hollywood's name. Stealing gold from the silver they see. But it's not for me." _

This man is the only one in the room. I'm singing to him. Is it working?_ "Here in these deep city lights. Girl could get lost here tonight. I'm finding every reason to be gone. There's nothing here to hold on to. Could I hold you?" _It's working. I am the only woman in the room. A little more thigh.

"_Calling out, somebody save me I feel like I'm fading away. And I'm gone." _And I am, and it's strange. I feel as though I'm watching with him. Urging him to take that first step. Prodding him to wonder who I am. What I do. Am I a threat? A friend? A lover? "_Calling out, somebody save me I feel like I'm fading. I'm fading." _Does he dare?_ "No, no." _Yes. My voice has become softer, richer. The pianist is slowing down. He stands._ "Deep city lights. Girl could get lost here tonight. I'm finding every reason to be gone. There's nothing here to hold on to. Could I hold you?" _I take a deep breath. Open my fingers to let my dress go. Water the seed I have just planted. My legs are shaky as I walk off stage. Am I really thattroubled?

He is waiting at the edge of the stage. He extends his hand to help me down. It is warm, calloused, gentle. He smiles. "I'm Dean."

His grasp warms the silver of my ring. "Eve."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**

**Many thanks to all those who are reading! **

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Sometimes she feels like she's in a Pink song. She knows it's not normal, but she talks to the younger version of herself. It is the only person she trusts, listens to, loves. That ten year old girl inside her is all she has. And she knows, that if the little girl could see her now, she would be crying.

XXX

"Eve." Dean says her name like he's tasting wine. Letting it bubble on his tongue, run across the top of his mouth, slowly allowing it down his throat so that the taste still lingers. "Eve what?"

"Dean what?" She will if he does. Removing her hand from his, she brushes imaginary lint of her dress as she waits. He follows her hands with his eyes, and she wonders what's going through his mind. Not that she doesn't know. Not that she cares.

He finally smiles. It's a slow move, almost strategic. "Smith."

Two can play this game. "It seems we have something in common." She leans back against the wall to let the next girl pass. The blonde shoots her a dirty look as she tramples up the stairs. Doesn't she know envy is a sin?

He looks back at the blonde, watching as she sashays up to the microphone and begins belting out…what is it…_I'll always love you, until the twelfth of never…_Blonde's off key. Too high. He's still watching.

She slips off, wondering if he'll notice or if he's too caught up in the white dress that reveals everything against the bright lights. It takes him a moment. He follows.

"So, Eve Smith."

"Who?"

"You."

"Oh." She sips on the cocktail that was placed in front of her. It burns her throat as it goes down, and she holds back a look of disgust that threatens to spill across her features.

"Do you sing here a lot?" His eyes are more green than blue, but they are steel. She tries, but can't see past them.

She answers quietly, "Some." She smiles.

"Yeah, I come in a lot of joints like this." He sighs, "what with my job and all."

"What do you do?" She knows this is going to be good. The story's written all over his face.

He leans close to her, conspiratorially, "FBI. I'm undercover right now, so if you could keep quiet about it." He leans back and winks at her. It's hard not to laugh.

"It must be a hard job." She has to remind herself to play into him, but some part of her argues. He is feeding her complete shit, and it bugs her. Ironically, she hates liars.

"Oh yeah."

Let him think he has her hooked. Lean closer, flutter her eyelashes. _Never give up…_

"It's kind of a lonely job, you know. Long hours. Only other person I talk to is my partner." He would be a good actor. He knows bullshit like none other. "And he's not much of a companion."

"Really?" She takes another sip of her drink. It doesn't burn as bad this time. "What kind of case are you working right now."

He looks around the club as if he expects the shadows to leap out. "I'd tell you," he moves close enough to whisper in her ear, "But I'd hate to see you dead."

It hits her hard enough to completely immobilize her. Her, dead? No. It won't play like that. She doesn't play like that. And she doesn't take threats, indirect or otherwise. "I can take care of myself." The phrase has enough venom in it to push him back to his chair. She can feel her cheeks heating up in anger, and she grips her glass so hard she can feel it start to give way. If she didn't want it so bad, he would be dead. Now.

"No, I didn't mean you couldn't." He tries to recover. She tries to calm down.

"It's fine." Another drink.

"Yeah." It's awkward now. She could kick herself.

"You're staying around here?" She tries to find her way back to the quiet, intimate conversation of before. It's going to be hard.

"Yeah. Sunset Motel. You know it?" He's eager for her answer. Maybe it won't be so hard after all.

"I've heard of it." She smiles.

"Have you ever seen the inside of one of the rooms? I don't know what was going through that interior decorator's head." He bends closer again.

"No."

"You want to?"

"Maybe." She looks at him from under her eyelashes. He's hers.

"Let me just tell my partner." He runs off, eager for what he thinks is coming.

She watches him go, half amused, half upset. Here goes nothing.

XXX

He opens the car door for her. She's not sure if it's because he's being a gentleman or because he doesn't want her to touch the midnight colored paint. Either way, she's found her only competition. But he opens the door to the room too, so maybe she's got a little leg up.

"Wow, this is…" She can't finish. The room is straight out of a 1950's diner. It seems the whole town is stuck in the past.

"My thoughts exactly."

"So what'd you partner say about you bringing me to see the room." The last part is thick with implications. She knows he knows she knows, but the boyish innocence is still endearing. If she really cared.

"Oh you know. The usual don't do anything bad. She' s a local. I don't think he actually understood that I was just bringing you to see the awful décor. Secretly, I think he likes it."

"Does he?" She reaches out and grabs the sleeve of his leather jacket.

"Yeah, but that's Sam for you." He complies with her tug and comes within reach. "The boy's weird, but he has your back when you need it."

"Will I ever?" She licks her lips.

"Nah." His face looms closer to her own.

"You'll have it?"

"You'll let me?"

And it's done. His lips are the perfect contrast to his hands. Cool, smooth, and demanding. They move against her own in a perfect, practiced harmony. It's easy to lose her head, but she keeps treading water. She has no choice.

XXX

The next morning the ten year old Eve is taunting her. As she showers back in her own hotel room, she lets a few tears mingle with the steaming water. It was worth it, she kept saying. He would die. She would save the world. It was wroth it.


	4. Chapter 4

**I don't own. Sad days.**

**As always, thank you guys so much for reading and reviewing! I'm sorry this wasn't up earlier, but I've had finals this week. Hope you like it!**

**And the song is Norah Jones "Turn Me On." **

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A million girls are sitting in their pajamas, downing a carton of Ben and Jerry's, and wondering why the hell they slept with the guy from the bar. You are wondering why you didn't.

It would have been so easy for you to just give in. So why didn't you? He was there. You were there. You have a job. But you told him you had to go home. You told him no.

You can justify it. You can justify it until you're blue in the face. Guys don't stay with easy. All the experts say you should wait to have sex with one. It keeps them coming around, keeps them close. All the experts say it gives a guy a challenge, and that guys still keep in touch with their caveman instincts. You: T-rex. Him: kill you. Or, in this case, fuck you. Either way.

And it increases your mystery! Then again, people are only about ten percent as mysterious as they make themselves out to be. Dean is a prime example.

You flop down on the cushy hotel bed. Housekeeping has done their job, and your sheets smell like a springtime meadow. Your roll onto your stomach and take a deep breath. Too bad you're in a city. You would have liked to find a big open meadow and just lay in the grass. Pretend to be ten again. Pretend you had never met Brianna Gully, and that she had never shown you your talent, that you never learned about different types of guns, or how to use them, long before your first mark, before Carrie came along, before you knew demons were real. You would like to just lay in the grass.

XXX

Your favorite pair of shoes are three inch heel, knee high, brown leather boots. They're the good brown. Not light milk chocolate, but deep dark chocolate. And tonight you've paired them with your favorite dress. Brown fabric with a purple, glittered, shear top layer, the halter catches the light, and you know you shine.

The club is packed, the manager is thrilled, and you're sitting on what has become your favorite bar stool, watching the crowd. You should probably tell someone that you're quitting. Dean's not coming back. There's no reason to stay.

"Eve. You're next." The stage manager is a shriveled, old woman who was, apparently, the singer of her day. You've never heard of her. "You hear me girl?"

You glance her way and glare at her for a moment. She backs off. The girl before you is actually doing a decent job. You're glad someone in this god forsaken town has talent. It would be a shame for the population to go through life thinking the blonde from last night was a star.

Careful, pride can kill you.

You're on edge. You blew it. It's your turn.

You block everything else out as you scale the three steps that lead to the sorry excuse for a stage.

"_Like a flower waiting to bloom, like a light bulb in a dark room, I'm just sitting here waiting for you to come on home and turn me on." _It must be déjà vu. A man is walking toward the empty table on the right side of the stage. He is familiar, but you've never spoken to him. Truth be told, you're a little afraid of him. He is the one Azazel wants. The one you have to create a path to. You've never dealt with such importance.

"_Like the desert waiting for the rain, like a school kid waiting for the spring, I'm just sitting here waiting for you to come on home and turn me on."_ He sits down, stares straight at you. You know a huge confrontation is coming. You debate praying. Someone is bound to listen.

"_My poor heart it's been so dark since you've been gone. After all you're the one who turns me off, but you're the only one who can turn me back on." _He's tapping his fingers against the sticky table top. It bugs you, and you wonder if he's noticing you glare. Must have, his fingers are still.

"_My hi-fi is waiting for a new tune, my glass is waiting for some fresh ice cubes. I'm just sitting here waiting for you to come on home and turn me on." _The last chord chimes to an end, you grant a small bow, and you step off the stage. He's standing there, hand outstretched, misplaced understanding plastered all over his face.

"I'm Sam."

Yup, it's déjà vu. Are you going to make-out with this one too?

"Eve." Your hand stays by your side. You wish he would get to the point.

"You know my brother."

"Dean."

"Yeah." You both stare at each other, wondering who's going to pick the conversation up. "Have you seen him?" It's his game.

"Not since last night."

"Oh." It's funny how uncomfortable he is when there's nothing to be uncomfortable about.

"He's missing?"

"Since last night. I got back to the room around four and he wasn't there. I thought, well, he didn't come back this morning and he usually leaves a note."

"And he still hasn't come back?" You actually are a little concerned. It wouldn't do for someone to get to your mark before you did.

"No." He shakes his head and glances around the room. "Well, sorry to bother you."

"It's really no problem. I hope you find him." And you do. Because you'd really like for him to get the chance to say goodbye. Because the second you find Dean, you are going to kill him before he goes missing again.

XXX

The walk back to your hotel room is uneventful. A shame, really. You'd love to work some of your frustration out on the one guy that thinks your ass is up for grabs. But, instead, you walk along the darkened street, into the sickly decorated lobby, and up to your dark room where you strip down to your underwear, throw on a robe, and fall face first onto the bed.

So what's your next move?

According to the knock that echoes through the room – answer the door.

Muttering obscenities under your breath, you push yourself out of the bed, make sure the robe is securely tightened around your waist, and open the door just enough to see out of.

"Did I come at a bad time?"

Dean. Damn that smirk. You give a loud sigh and let him in. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd make a friendly visit." He eyes your dress that is puddled in the middle of the floor. "Someone else obviously beat me too it."

"Jealous much?" You give his shoulder a small shove and bend down to pick up the dress. "I talked to Sam earlier," you tell him, "he was worried."

"Uh-huh." He watches as you hang the dress in the closet. "I called him."

"Where were you?"

"Business. CIA keeps me busy."

"CIA?" Check and mate. "I thought it was the FBI?"

"Oh, yeah, well, we work together you know, and I-"

"Give it up, Dean. You don't work for the FBI."

He stares at your for a long, long minute. Probably debating if he should tell you the truth or not. If he should come clean. Or not. "Okay, so I'm not exactly FBI, but I'm pretty close."

"Right." It's safe to say you're a little pissed. First he goes missing, then he continues to lie to you. You're a lot pissed. "You know, Dean, I'm kind of tired."

"Eve, come on." Your glare cuts him short, but he starts again. "Okay, so I'm not at all FBI. But I'm still a detective. Kind of."

"Kind of?" You cross your arms.

"I do a lot of…non-profit work."

"Dean."

"No, seriously."

"Get out."

This time he glares right back. "You know, I wasn't going to say anything."

"About what?"

"You don't exist. Eve Smith. No where to be found."

"You're looking at her."

"I'm looking at a liar."

"And I'm not?" It hits you both, right then, that you each know more than you're letting on.

"Do you care?"

"Do you?"

And hell if either of you do because you're not saying no this time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaiming; v; an action that makes me cry. I so wish Dean was mine...um, Santa? **

**Okay, y'all. Remember the three review thing? I really need that. Plus, I'm really going to try and stick to it from now on, and I'm really excited about the torture scene coming up in a chapter or two. But, who wouldn't be? Ha, that sounds so deranged. Sorry. **

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"Eve…Eve…"

"What?" She groans and buries her face deeper into the pillow her arm has curled around.

"There's someone at the door."

She turns her head enough to see out of one eye, and groans again. It isn't fair that he wakes her up at…"Time?"

"Eight."

Eight in the morning. "'S probably just housekeeping."

"This early?"

"Buzz kill," she mutters. She untangles herself from the sheets. "I need a shirt."

"Buzz kill," he shoots back. He throws her the blue button-down he had on the night before.

She buttons it up and stumbles to the door. It's cold, and she could really use some coffee. Or Dean. Or both. Who does the song…_the sex she slipped into my coffee…._ That sounds good.

The door is locked, and it takes her a moment to figure that out, but she does, and she pushes it open enough to see out of.

"It's about time, bitch." A tall, slender blonde is posed outside the door. "I've been calling you for a few days now."

She doesn't remember where her cell phone is, or the last time she used it. "Carrie," she manages to spit out.

"In the flesh. What are you wearing?" She eyes the small bit of button down she can see.

"Nothing. Listen, I'm kind of busy."

"You have someone in there."

"Carrie, seriously-"

"Dammit, Eve. What's the rule?"

"Don't let anyone see enough to recognize you. I know, I've got it, but this isn't-"

"Who is it? I hope it's just some guy you picked up off the street because then it'll be easier."

That stops her cold. "Easier to what?"

"You know what."

She steps out of the room and closes the door behind her with a definite click. "What are you doing here?"

"Catching up." The blonde flicks a few strands of hair over her shoulder. "It's been awhile, you know. Thought I'd check and see what hair and eye colors you've got now, how big your knife collection is, what the hell kind of job you're working. You know, catching up."

"I don't need you here, Carrie." She tries to keep all the emotion out of her voice. Anger, hate, it all has stay out.

"So I've heard. But then again, I've heard you don't need me at all." Carrie smiles. She's reminded of a cat about to leap onto a mouse. "So tell me about him."

She stares blankly. This is her job. Her power. Hers.

"Or don't." Carrie shrugs. "I just-"

"Eve?" Dean steps out of the room.

"Go back in." She mentally slaps herself. The only way this can get worse is if Azazel shows up.

"Hello." Carrie slides up to him, hand extended, practically purring.

"Hi," he glances at her questioningly. She shakes her head, bites her lip.

"I'm Carrie. I work with," Carrie also glances at her. She nods. "Eve."

"You're a singer, too?"

Carrie laughs. The sound echoes in the small corridor. "Not exactly."

"Oh, well." He claps his hands together and turns to her. "I'll just go back in."

"Yeah," she smiles a little. He leaves. The door slams.

Carrie turns around, wonder in her eyes. "Where did you get him?"

"He's the mark."

Carrie's laughter is different the second time around. Darker. "I guess that's one way to make sure he doesn't remember you. Or that he doesn't die unhappy."

She's quick to defend herself. "That's how he wanted it done."

"How's that, Eve? Fucked and fired? Sexed and shot? Banged and banged," she chuckles at the last one.

"I get it, thank you."

"No. Thank you." Carrie recovers. "You do need me. You are in way over your head here."

"I'm not."

"Really? So how are going to do it? Shoot him? Stab him? Poison him? Admit it, Eve, you don't know."

"I still don't get why you're here. Or how you found me." She crosses her arms. This is ridiculous.

"I made you. It wasn't that hard."

"You didn't make anything," she snaps.

"That's right. You were born a killer, weren't you? Your parents. Your sister." Carrie straightens her shirt. "You do as you're told, Eve. Don't make me clean up after you."

"Stay away from him."

"He looks like fun. I can't make promises." She takes a breath. "I'll be around."

"Stay away."

Carrie smiles. "You should probably talk to your boss, Eve. I think he's getting a little tired."

She watches Carrie walk away with a frown on her face. What was she talking about?

"Eve?" Dean comes out for the second time. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," she turns and flashes a smile. "Want to go for coffee?"

"How about we order room service instead?"

"Even better."


	6. Chapter 6

**Oh, wow, guys. I'm so sorry! I obviously, accidentally uploaded the wrong thing. Sorry!!!!**

**Scratch that. This is the millionth time I've reuploaded this. I think fanfic is going haywire!**

**Disclaimer. I need to learn how to say that in different languages.**

**The song is "Criminal" by Fiona Apple. **

**Thanks to those who review! **

* * *

This is my last night singing. I told the manager two hours ago. He told me to go out with a bang. He told me he wasn't surprised. He told me every girl that comes through here leaves for bigger and better. But am I leaving for bigger and better? Probably not. 

"Here." Dean sets my drink down in front of me. I nod my thanks and take a sip. Three days and I'm used to the way alcohol burns a trail down my throat. I now know why people turn to it in times of crisis. It's warm. Understanding. "When do you go?"

"Huh?" I pull myself out of my stupor. "A couple minutes."

He nods. "I have to leave right after."

"Why?"

"Just do."

I nod again. He's been like this since Carrie's visit. Cold, distant, vague. I don't like it. I have to laugh at myself. I have no right to or to not like it. "Are you coming back?"

"Sure." He's distracted.

"To my room? You have a key?" He has to enter to hotel by himself. I've already checked out.

"Yeah. Got it." He touches the worn leather of his jacket.

"Girl," the old one hit wonder taps me with her clipboard. "Get up there."

I look at Dean one last time. I hope he tells Sam good-bye. Dean grins at me, winks, and I'm walking up to the stage. My steps are hollow. The club is oddly silent, and I have to believe it's because everybody knows. Somehow. They know.

"_I've been a bad, bad girl. I've been careless with a delicate man. And It's a sad, sad world, when a girl can break a boy just because she can." _My song choice is ironic. I know this. I like it. He watches me with odd sense of amusement, intelligence, and dejection scripted across his face. I see Sam slide up beside him. He watches for a few seconds more, throws the last remains of his drink and mine down his throat, and stalks out of the club. His taller half follows close behind without even a glance in the stage's direction.

"_Don't you tell me to deny it. I've done wrong and I want to suffer for my sins. I've come to you 'cause I need guidance to be true, and I just don't know where I can begin." _I've never really surveyed the rest of the club from on stage. It looks so different. So mysterious, almost. Everyone is in shadow. Their actions, their sins, unseen. The only things that shine out are their eyes. Big ones, naïve ones, eyes that are slit and shaded. And one pair that makes my voice falter for a moment. The yellow color seems to permeate my veins, clot my blood, but push my voice louder.

"_Heaven help me for the way I am. Save me from these evil deeds before I get them done. I know tomorrow brings the consequence at hand, but I keep living this day like the next will never come." _He smiling at me. Laughing in his own way. I know this. I don't know why he's here. What he wants. I'm doing my job. Why am I worried?

"_Oh, help me, but don't tell me to deny it. I've got to cleanse myself of all these lies 'till I'm good enough for him. I've got a lot to lose and I'm betting high. So I'm begging you before it ends, just tell me where to begin. What I need is a good defense 'cause I'm feeling like a criminal, and I need to be redeemed to the one I sinned against because he was all I ever knew of love." _I want to stop singing. I want to step out of the burning light and into the shadows with its eyes. I want him to stop looking at me like I'm his on display. There's a sense of ownership in the air that's suffocating me.

"_Let me know the way before there's hell to pay. Give me room to lay the law and let me go." _There's someone with him. Her hair catches the light as she stands and walks out of the room. She moves in a way that's familiar to me. Stealthy, quiet, undetectable.

"_What I need is a good defense 'cause I'm feeling like a criminal. And I need to be redeemed to the one I sinned against because he was all I ever knew of love." _They actually applaud for me this time. I guess third time's the charm. I step down to solid ground and weave between tables to the one that I'm sure will decided some part of my fate. Be it good or bad.

"All you ever knew of love?" Azazel laughs. "That was convincing."

"That's my job."

"No," his voice is suddenly harsh whisper. "I believe your job was to convince him that you are all he ever knew of love. And then kill him. But where is he, Eve? Not here to witness you last performance."

"He's coming to my room tonight."

"Oh?"

"He's not leaving."

"I see." He brings his hands together and rests his elbows on the table. "I hate to ruin what I'm sure were perfectly good plans, but I've decided against."

"Against what?" I don't like this.

"You."

"What?"

"I met someone who promised me more satisfaction out of the deal. She also promised it to be over in ten hours. There's been an unsuspected uprising among my ranks and I need the younger one as soon as possible. Her name's Carrie. She said to send you her regards. You understand of course."

I'm speechless. How could…what could… The bitch. "I can't say that I do."

"Well," the sadistic grin is in place. "Let me explain it to you in simpler terms. She's in. You're out. I think the money you've made here compensates you for your time, and I wish you a good future. Keep up the good killing."

I watch as he pushed his chair back. If I knew how to kill him, I would have let Dean go.

"Oh, Eve. Don't try and stop her or overtake her. It seems she has even less care for killing you than him." And he's gone. Vanished into the black walls. And I am left with confusion and malice.

And more care to kill her.

XXX

He's not answering his cell. I don't know where he's staying. I don't know any other numbers. I don't know what I'm going to tell him. I'm practically running through the lobby of the hotel, and I forgo the elevators and take the steps two at a time. I have to pick the lock of the room due to the fact that I've already turned in my key. I should have made a copy.

The light switch is to the left of the door, and I have to feel along the wall until I find it. It's not working.

Suddenly the door slams behind me, there's a prick on the back of my neck, a flash of light, and nothing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I don't own, and I don't care anymore. Alright, that last part, that might be a lie.**

* * *

Carrie plays with the uneven end of her ponytail. She has watched the hotel for hours, waiting for him to come, but Eve has made it first. It's a perfect way to deal with two problems at once. First, the Winchester boy, whom Azazel will pay handsomely for. And then little Eve, who has been such a problem lately.

Eve didn't used to be so bad, Carrie remembers the shy girl that first came into the business. She was lost, confused, and so easy to mold. But lately Eve's been stubborn, careless, annoying. Carrie needs to reiterate her rightful place over Eve. Over Eve.

She smiles at the hotel staff as she floats through the lobby and up the stairs. She sees Eve pick the lock to the room and mess with the lights that Carrie so cleverly jammed up. Silently, Carrie slips behind her, withdraws a small hypodermic from her pocket, and slides the needle into a vein on the side of Eve's neck. Two seconds flat and the girl's on the floor. Now where is the boy…

XXX

The back of your neck's stinging. You reach to rub the spot, but find you can't move your arm more than a few inches, and, when you open your eyes, you see why. "What the hell?" you question pulling against the knots that hold your wrists to the headboard of your hotel bed. "You've got to be kidding me."

"No joke, sweetheart." The bitch-blonde comes into view. "You and lover boy here gotta go, but I thought, haven't had fun in awhile. Might as well make it count."

"Carrie," you hiss through your teeth. Dean's unconscious and handcuffed to the heater that's mounted on the wall opposite the bed.

"Oh, Evie." She giggles, "This brings back old memories, doesn't it?"

"You're deranged."

Her smile falters and the killing glare you see in the mirror every morning is on you. "And you don't think you're a little twisted." She smiles again. "Remember your first job? That delightful little blonde that was two-timing her husband?" She rubs her red lips together. "He gave us a good deal. A million for a little torture. Remember? You had fun."

"What are you doing?" You pull at the ropes, but the knot only tightens.

"Don't worry, babe. I'm not going to hurt you. Just him. You're putting a bullet through your head. Just couldn't handle the pressure. All those murders, finally catching up with you." She sighs. "But back to your question. I had a nice little chat with that demon," she laughs, "demon. Anyway, he let me in on a secret. Dean here, he's not really in the way of anything. Wouldn't really matter if he lived or died. Point is, Azazel wants his brother broken. Apparently, the kid's putting up a little resistance. I don't know why. I'd kill for that kind of power. Oh wait." She grins.

"Untie me, Carrie." You can't let her get to you. You have to do something!

"No. You've become a weak link. Running to tell him the second you're off the job." She nudges Dean's unresponsive form. "You've got to go, too." Carrie sits on the end of the bed. "I remember when Brianna brought you in. You remember her; she was hired to kill your parents."

You didn't remember that.

"Oh yeah. Good money, too. Point is, she said you let her right in and pointed her in the direction of their room."

"I was seven. She told me she was their friend. I didn't know any better," you growl.

"The raised you crazy naïve, didn't they." She shrugs. "Guess that's what you get with country hicks."

You're going to kill her. Slowly. And painfully. "My parents raised me to see the best in people."

"Yeah. Right. Oh," her attention wavers from you as Dean starts moving. "Morning, Sunshine," Carrie all but chirps. "Have a good sleep?"

"I've had better." Dean is immediately on guard. "Eve?" The wrinkles in his forehead deepen.

"It's basically a party," You mutter as you glare at Carrie.

"Didn't think you were one for parties, Eve." Carrie smiles at you like she's just spilt some big joke. "Working alone and all that." She turns away from the hate on your face to address Dean. "Well, Mr. Winchester. Shall we start the fun? I'm on a very strict time table, here." She turns back to you. "I've got a guy in Kentucky that wants his mistress gone. Apparently, she's going to go to his wife if he doesn't pay her off," she explains conspiratorially.

"How do you know my name?" Dean asks, getting Carrie's attention off of you. You meet his eyes behind her back. He inclines his head ever so slightly toward the pillows. You pull yourself up into a sit and feel under them with your foot. There's a gun. You start working on the knots holding you in place.

"I know a lot more than that." She bends over him to check the ties that hold him.

"That doesn't seem fair. I mean, you know about me, and I don't even remember you name."

"Carrie. Pleasure to meet you."

"Wish I could say the same." Dean pulls against the ropes.

"I don't blame you. I wouldn't be too happy if I were the next victim of a serial killer."

"Of a what?" Dean asks incredulously.

Carrie nods. "Yeah. A serial killer. How many is it now, Eve? Thirty? Forty? You have been doing this for about seventeen years with an average of two a year." She thinks for a moment.

"I'm obviously missing something here," Dean interrupts.

"Oh, I plan to check." Carrie reaches into a tan messenger bag and pulls out a thin knife. You've seen that knife before. You know what she does with it. "But you mean within the situation. Let's catch you up."

"Carrie," you warn.

"Relax. It's not like he'll live long enough to go to anyone who can stop us. Or rather me, once you're out of the picture." She pulls a second chair next to Dean's and perches on the edge of it. Using the knife, she cuts the sleeve off his shirt.

"Yeah, I hate this shirt anyway," he says sarcastically.

"I see why you agreed to play with him, Eve." Carrie eyes the muscles of Dean's arm. Using the smooth side of the knife, she traces a pattern you can't see.

Dean flinches at the touch.

You start to work harder. Part of the knot is coming loose.

"So how'd your last night living go, Dean?"

"You seriously think you're going to kill me, don't you?" Dean asks. It is obvious this is news to him.

"I am seriously going to kill you. But, if anyone asks, Eve did it. She gets her just deserts though."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, like I said. She got about forty murders under her proverbial belt. Yours pushes her over the edge. Her last murder is her own. Very poetic."

"You're crazy."

"Why makes you say that?" She eyes his arm once more before turning the knife to its tip. You watch her actions in horror. She flashes a grin at you before sinking the blade into his skin.

Dean groans as the blade eats through his flesh. "Well, there's that."

"Barely a nip." Carrie continues to carve out whatever vision she has in her head.

"And you call yourself a serial killer. And you call Eve a serial killer. Mother fucker!" He hisses as Carrie once again digs under his skin.

You've almost got yourself untied. Your heart is racing with every sharp breath Dean takes. Carrie's laughing a little under her breath. You seriously wonder how you ever got off on this.

"Eve is a killer. I used to be. I just orchestrate things now. Why don't you explain how that works, Eve." She looks over to the bed. "Eve?"

You're off of it, standing beside it with Dean's gun in your hands. "Stop it, Carrie."

"Oh, please. Put that down. You're not going to do anything." She continues her work.

You look over her shoulder. She's slicing an apple in his arm. It's red with his blood. Almost real enough to eat.

Carrie notices you staring. "I thought it would be appropriate. He could be the Adam to your Eve. It was the apple that did them in, you know."

"Actually," you release the safety on the gun, "I believe it was the snake." You press the cold barrel to her temple and pull the trigger. The knife clatters to the ground after her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Discalim...For real.**

* * *

"You killed her." Dean looks at the body with trepidation. "She was just a girl, and you killed her." He looks at Eve with a million questions. "She's dead."

"She had it coming." You kneel down and begins untying the knots around Dean's wrists and ankles.

"She had it coming?" He's almost hysterical. "She was just a girl!"

"Dean, please, don't freak out." You knows that the faster his blood pumps the sooner he'll die. "We've got to get you to a hospital."

"We've gotta what? It's just a cut. A deep one, but Sammy'll stitch it up and-" he stops abruptly. "You have killed before haven't you? No one would do it that fast without practice. You didn't even hesitate."

"Do you have your cell?" The knots are harder to undo than yours were. It looks like Carrie's fatal flaw was estimation. Both under and over. He nods and you fish the phone out of the pocket of his jacket.

"911." The operator's voice seems eons away.

"I need an ambulance right away." You proceed to give the operator as many details as can be twisted into your favor and the address of the hotel. You hang up on her once she says someone's on their way. Pocketing Dean's phone, you turn back to the soon to be invalid. He has undone the last of the knots by himself and is now stretched out across the bed. "Dean, don't fall asleep, alright?"

"Why can't I feel my arm?" he asks quietly. And he says something else, but you can't hear, so you crawl next to him and make out the phrase, "I don't understand."

"Please, don't think too much about it." You can hear the slight begging in your voice, and it makes you stop and think yourself. You can't have that, not now, so you grab a towel off the floor and press it to his arm. It's still bleeding. Carrie cut deep.

"How many?"

"How many what?"

"How many have you killed."

Thank God he passes out before you have to answer.

X

At the hospital it's all lights and noise. She gives a police officer her deposition. Carrie was crazy, trying to kill both of them, bragging about murders in Tennessee, Nevada, Florida. She even gives them names. She gives surgeons and physicians a first hand account of what happened to Dean. What Carrie used to cut him, where she thought the poison came from. But nobody gives her anything.

It has been three hours.

Dean's still not stable. She has never known anybody to survive Carrie. She has seen countless people suffer, scream, even smile, but none have survived.

Nobody has come to talk to her about what's going on. There have been no doctors to tell her that he's going to make it. That he's not. No one to ask, either. It seems as if she is all alone in the giant hospital. She doesn't know what to do with herself.

She still hasn't called Sam. It's wrong, yes, but she can't bring herself to do it. What is she going to say? What is she going to do when he shows up? She twirls Dean's cell in her fingers. It's crazy, juvenile, downright loony, but she can't do it. Oh, hell. What could he do to her?

"_Hello? Dean? Where are you man, I-"_

"Sam. It's Eve." Her heart is about to jump out of her chest.

"_Eve? What's going on? Where's Dean?"_

"There was a…something went…"

"_Eve?"_

"He's in the hospital. The big one. Two towns over. I think it's called Oasis or something."

"_Why? What happened? Is he okay?" _

Too many questions. Not enough time. "I don't know, Sam."

"_I'll be there in thirty minutes." _

She slips the phone back in her pocket and parks herself in one of the hard plastic chairs. Staring at the double doors, she wills a doctor to come out. None do. She puts her head in her hands and closes her eyes. "To die perchance to sleep. To sleep perchance to dream," she mummers, knowing the quote is out of context and distorted, but not caring.

X

I sense, rather than see Sam enter the waiting room. The tall man bustled in, immediately barking questions at unsuspecting nurses and interns. Not wanting them to suffer as I am, I walk over to him, take his arm, and pull him down into the chair beside me. He just looks at me, waiting. It's eerie. I don't like it.

"I don't know how he's doing," I finally answer his stare, "No one has come out to tell me."

"Eve, what happened?" His puppy-dog eyes, sweet and sincere, invite me to tell him too much. They beg me to explain everything, but Dean needs to understand first.

"Here name was Carrie. Apparently, she was the serial killer that's been plaguing the East."

"I don't know her."

"She killed a bunch of people." I leave my answer vague. "She caught us in my hotel room. Tied both of us up. For some reason, she didn't touch me, but she took a knife and started, drawing, I guess, in Dean's arm. The doctor said it was poisoned. I guess the tip was." Wrong. I am lying to him. She started on him before me because she knew that would kill me, if it was just through annoyance that she was working my job. And she wasn't drawing in his arm, she was flat out carving. He would have a scar in the shape of an apple. And the poison was contained in the blade. Not on it. That's why it was so strong, and why it killed so quick. "Do you want coffee?" I ask, getting an idea.

Sam nods, and continues to stare at the space where the big double doors led to the operating rooms.

"I'll be back."

He nods again.

I stand and move in the general direction of the cafeteria, but I slip into the hallway before it, pull out Dean's phone, and dial a familiar number.

"_Hello?" _

"Brianna, it's Eve."

"_You get a new cell phone?"_

"No, listen, I need to know if you've got anyone at," I check the evacuation plans to my right, "Medical Oasis Hospital." What a name.

"_Um, hold on. Let me check." _There's a pause, and I can hear her shuffling papers and clicking keys. _"Eve, I've got a guy in one of the labs. His name is Steven. Will that work?" _

"Yeah, thanks." I go to hang up, but I hear her clear her throat.

"_Have you heard about Carrie?"_

"No." I frown at how quickly I can lie. Just like Dean said about my killing, I didn't hesitate.

"_She's dead. Some Jane Doe killed her. I guess…I guess I'll head to her apartment, see if I can salvage everything before the police does. Take over, I guess."_

"Yeah, sounds good." I push off the wall and start to find my way to the labs. Thankfully, the hospital isn't that big and everything is clearly marked. The search doesn't take long.

"_I'll call you with a new job as soon as I get things settled." _

"Yeah, that's great. Brianna, I've got to go.'

"_Of course. Talk to you soon." _She hangs up.

I close Dean's phone and go into the clean, white room. An older man is sitting behind a desk, but I can't see his name tag. He looks up at me, expectantly. "I'm looking for Steven." I try and instill my usual confidence in my voice, but for some reason it's just too hard, and I end up sounding worn out.

"I'm Steven. How can I help you?"

I smile. Now's the time to play up my job. "I work for Carrie." I can see his face pale, and his lips part as if he's going to refuse before he even hears my request. "Listen," I interrupt his awe, "I just need to know what's happening with one of the patients here. Just get me a doctor to talk to or something, and you're out of it."

Steven nods, I guess taking the less of two evils. "Follow me," he leads me out of the lab and down a more intricate set of hallways. "What's the name?"

"Winchester. He just came in. Poisoned. I think they were trying to stabilize him or something last time I heard anything."

He sighs, "He's probably in the ICU by now. I have all his blood samples." He eyes me questionably. "You don't need anything changed, right?"

"No. Nothing."

"Good." He says it like he would refuse to if I asked. The twit, Brianna would kill him quicker than Carrie would have. "Dr. Goodwin?" He touches the shoulder of an old man in a white lab coat.

"Steven, what can I do for you?" Dr Goodwin seems like a good man. His face is covered in soft wrinkles, the kind a wise grandfather might have, and is perfect for a big smile. I find myself immediately warming to him before I can keep myself in check.

"This is my sister."

"Eve," I say, shaking his hand.

"The patient that just came in, Winchester, is her fiancé, and she'd really like to know what's going on."

"Oh," Dr. Goodwin looked at me closely, "I was just about to come find you. Please follow me."

"Thanks, bro," I say giving the uncomfortable lab tech a wink. He mutters something as he leaves, and I follow Dr. Goodwin.

"Your fiancé is stable, for the moment." He gives me a sympathetic look. "I won't know what kind of poison it was until Steven gets the results back, but I think we've more or less got it out. He's very weak, and probably won't wake up for awhile."

"But he'll be okay?"

"I think so. But all we can do at this point is pray. That girl that tried to kill him, she knew what she was doing." He frowns at me. "You were there too, weren't you?"

"Yeah," I say softly as Dean comes into view. "I was." I walk over to the edge of the bed. His arm is thick with bandages and gauze, and his face is almost as white as the sheets. But he was breathing. The boy had survived Carrie. It could only get better. "His brother is in the lobby," I mention as the doctor starts to walk away.

Dr. Goodwin nods, and changes his direction.

I take a deep breath. Than another. I sort of pray he never wakes up. I don't want to answer to him. Not at all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Dissing, Claiming, Ering. No-make-money-ing. Darning. **

**Okay, so my main concern with this chapter is that everything was accepted a little too quickly, but at the same time, I kinda think Eve and Dean are on the same page. It maybe a different book, but I really feel like they're right there. I didn't mean for it to happen like this, but I like it. I think. I can't make up my mind. How about you? **

* * *

She stays with him that night as well as the next. Sam begs her to leave, throwing out excuses like her need for food and sleep, but she refuses. She has to be there when he wakes up. She has to explain.

X

It's early, around three in the morning, when he starts to shift restlessly in the rigid hospital bed, but it isn't until he starts coughing that she's nudged out of the place between sleep and consciousness. As she steps over to the bed, she can't help but reach down and smooth out the wrinkles on his forehead. He stills at her touch, but shudders as her fingers slide down his cheek. For the first time she feels remorse at what she's caused, and a silent tear slides down hers. It's quickly wiped away, and she pulls the call button out of his grasp. His eyes flutter open, and he looks at her like she's something safe for a split second, but the look goes south, and he's shooting daggers.

"I don't explain or apologize much, boy, so listen."

"You can't call me 'boy,' Eve. If that's even your name." His voice is breathy, but heavy at the same time. She guesses it's the mixture of pain, morphine, and sleep.

"I'm not in the practice of using fake names. My name is Eve, and that's beside the point."

"So what's the point. That I'm going to be number forty-whatever in your killing spree? That you're going to bribe me to keep my mouth shut? Threaten me to? I don't even know what you're doing here. I couldn't lead the police to you. Just leave." The last words are whispered, and she senses more than physical hurt.

She could so easily kill him right now. Slit his throat and then curl up in the chair, faking innocence with a bat of her eyelashes. But she's never even seen a dead body, she's always walking away as they hit the ground, and the thought of Dean, just lying there, disturbs her. "Dean, I don't want you dead."

"So what do you want?"

"I told you. To explain."

"What happened to the apologize?"

"I don't know if you deserve it." He raises his eyebrows and scowls. She accepts it as her cue to continue. "You would have been number thirty-nine."

The scowl softens. "And forty after you take out Sam?"

"Sam was never part of the deal."

"Oh, that's right. Someone had to pay you to kill me. So who was it? The FBI getting you to do their leg work?"

"No."

"State Police."

"No."

"CIA?"

"No."

"Tell me when I'm getting warm."

"You're not."

"Figured." He sighs and examines the gauze around his upper arm. "So who was it."

"His name is Azazel."

"Don't hear that everyday. Who does he work for? Pissed off family that got their house desecrated by God knows what? Unhappy circus?"

"He's a demon."

"I'm sure he's a real pain in the ass, but a demon? That's harsh. Even for you."

She ignores his sarcasm. "He wants your brother."

Dean's smirk is frozen off his face. "This thing. He have yellow eyes?"

"Like a lemon."

Dean nods. "So how much did he offer you? A thousand? A million?"

"Power. The power to get whatever I want. To do whatever I want. To finally get out from under Carrie's blood painted thumb."

"Yeah, poor pitiful you."

"I'm not trying to turn the pity-party around," she snaps, "but you don't know a damn thing. Stop acting like you do."

For some reason, this shuts him up. "So what happened? Power's a pretty persuasive tool."

"I don't know what happened. I guess I wasn't fast enough for him. He got Carrie to do it. It's funny really, I was going to kill you last night. The man's crazy impatient, I guess."

"Too bad." The response was filled with his usual sarcastic undertone, but she nodded.

"For him. I would have succeeded."

"You sound sure of yourself."

"Seventeen years. I don't fail anymore." She holds his gaze a moment. "It was poison, by the way, but more subtle than that." She points at his arm.

"Yeah, that hurt like a bitch," he grimaces, "still does now that I think about it."

She's glad he's accepted that she's not going to hurt him, that he should listen to her. The bed squeaks as she sits down next to him, taking advantage of the situation. "It's a type of poison. It's got honey in it. That's what makes it move slow enough for her to torture, but fast enough to kill you before morning."

"Never eating that again," he mutters.

"It's bad for you anyway." She toys a wrinkle in the thinning blanket. "It was never anything personal, especially now that I know a little more about you and your brother."

"What do you know about us?"

"Just that killing you won't help save the world."

He laughs. "That's what he told you?"

"Yeah. I'm starting to understand that he's not the most truthful thing in the world."

"What was your first clue?" Dean looks down at his hands. "How'd you get into this anyway?"

"Azazel came to my room one night, and-"

"No. I mean, how did you become an assassin?"

She laughs now. "I've never been called that."

"Well, it's what you are."

"I know." She takes a deep breath. "My parents were killed," she acknowledges, "and I was too young to know not to go with the person who did it. She took me to Carrie. I guess you could say I was raised with weapons and blood."

An odd, bitter look swept across Dean's features. "Guess we have something in common."

"What do you mean?"

"You're not the only killer in this room."

"You?" She doesn't understand.

"I've never killed a person." He pauses, "A real person."

"I don't get it."

"I'm a hunter. I hunt what the average Joe has nightmares about."

"You mean, like…"

"Ghosts, demons, monsters."

"Are you hunting Azazel?"

"Yeah," he grew quieter, "He killed mine and Sam's mom. Sam's girlfriend, too."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah." He shakes off whatever emotion that tried to latch onto him.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

She curls up onto the bed and rests her head beside his, "Can I stay blissfully ignorant?"

"What?" The closeness bothers him just a little, and he moves his head farther away.

"I don't want to believe that there are worse things than me out there."

"You've already made a deal with a demon, Eve. It doesn't get much worse."

"I've made a lot of deals, with a lot of demons. It can't get much worse."

"Blissfully ignorant." He moves a bit closer to her, "I guess that's your own decision to make."

She nods and bites her bottom lip. "And, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I am sorry."

He sighs. "Something tries to kill me every other day, at least. I guess I can't hold it against you."

You giggle at the hidden humor, and Dean smiles back.

"Well," a throat is cleared, "guess you're feeling okay."

She jumps off the bed and looks guiltily at Sam. "I think I'll go grab something to eat, now."

Sam nods.

"You two should talk."

Dean nods and she starts to walk out the door.

"This is the first time she's left," she hears Sam say before she's out of earshot, "she was probably plotting ways to kill you."


	10. Chapter 10

**I'm dissing the claim, people. Dissing the clam.**

* * *

You can't eat too much, which is a shame because the hospital food isn't really all that bad. Yet, the chocolate cake sits uneaten on your plate, practically mocking your inability to stomach it. In defeat, you look up at the ceiling and trace patterns on the tiles. There's a heart, and a star, and a rainbow – cheery.

Everything is against you. You pick up your plate, drop it into the nearest trash bin, and start wandering the halls of the hospital. There must me some kind of ICU ward around because the number of older women twisting their wedding rings around their finger is basically atrocious.

With a impatient sigh – you want to know what they're talking about, especially if it's about you – you settle yourself on a chair and stare glumly at the toes of your black boots.

"They just keep getting younger, and younger." An old woman with long, silver hair sits beside you. You immediately straighten in your seat, but she puts a translucent hand on your knee. "I know, girl. I sat just like you once, wondering why God allows all the suffering in this place." The woman sighs and, true to her mold, touches the golden wedding band that looks glued to her finger. "Who is it, child?"

"Who's what?" You're confused. Who is this woman and why is she talking to you? And how exactly are you sitting?

"Who are you waiting for?"

You stare blankly at her.

"Is it your husband? Fiancé? Father, brother? My husband, Andrew, he's in surgery right now. It's his third hear attack, and the doctors think there might have been a stroke sometime before it." She looks like she's about to start bawling right in the middle of the busy ward, but, with dignity you've never seen, she straightens her shoulders and smiles at you. "He'll make it, though. I won't let him go, yet."

"I'm sorry," you quietly tell her. She shakes her head and motions for you to answer her question. "He's my," you pause. What is he? "He's just a boy." You keep it vague, indistinct. He's nothing.

And yet, the woman smiles and nods like she knows everything. "It's killing you. I can see it."

She's obviously a mental patient. You're the only thing killing around here. Well, save a few heart attacks, apparently. "I'm fine. Really." You try and shrug her off, but she's persistent.

"No, you're not. This boy, he may just be a boy, but you're worried."

You shake your head. In a few minutes you're going to start looking for the stale cookies and mint gum she probably hands out. The crazy.

"You should let him know that. They all appreciate a little care every now and again."

"Thank you." You can't take it anymore, "I might just do that."

She smiles again. "It'll take your mind off things."

You get out while you can. You hate hospitals. It's official.

Subconsciously, you know you're heading back to Dean's room, back to trouble, when you really should head out the front doors, but you're mind's too preoccupied by the fact that it is killing you. You've never felt regret for your job. Never questioned the aftermath. The crying mothers, angry fathers, confused siblings, lost lovers – they've all just disappeared with a pull of a trigger, dip of a poison bottle, tightening of a rope, and they've never resurfaced. But now, now you have the supposed victim, his family, and this girl that's screaming inside your head because she hates who you are.

"Eve."

You look up from the tiled floor to find Sam coming at you. After doing a quick check for a concealed weapon, you look up to his face and find a big smile over what should be a scowl.

"Dean was wondering where you went." He came to a stop in front of you, "One of the nurses came in. He's doped up pretty good. It's funny."

"Sam." You fake a frown, "That's no way to treat your brother.

"He's answering any question. Any question. I'm going to the car to find a tape recorder."

You laugh as he scurries off. He's growing on you, and this is only the second time you've talked to him. With a shake of your head, you push open the door to Dean's room and step inside the cool darkness. Dean's gazing up at the ceiling with a dazed look on his face, but he smiles when he sees you.

"I always liked the way you entered a room. All quiet and stealthy. It's good."

"Good for what?" You play along as you curl into a chair.

He shrugs and laughs, "It's good for a lot." He looks at you with a goofy smile. "Sam thinks I'm completely out of it. I'm waiting for him to come back with a recorder."

"Yeah, what are you going to do?"

"Fabricate some big story that'll cause him to freak." He laughs again, "It's going to be the only thing that keeps me sane in this place."

"How long do you have to stay?" You toy with a strand of your hair that's come undone from the ponytail on top of your head

"They're saying another week. I'll give them until tomorrow afternoon."

You laugh. The light catches the strand of hair in between your fingers just right, and a ray of red-gold bleeds across the white washed wall. "Are you leaving?" The question is vague, and to some already answered, but he understands.

"Yeah. We're going to Utah. Can't wait." His easy, sarcastic tone is at home in the statement.

"Hmm."

"Are you?"

"Going to Utah? No."

"Where are you going?"

"I haven't decided." You drop the stray strand form you fingers and smooth it behind your ear. You're thinking Florida. Somewhere warm and sunny. And it has a beach. Real waves that you can fall under instead of the waves caused by stupid people and stupid orders. A real crash and burn.

"You could come to Utah." He almost sounds hopeful. Almost.

"You know I can't."

"Actually, I wasn't aware of that."

You sigh, recross your legs, collect your thoughts. "Dean, you and Sam, you're perfect, you know. And I'm not one to intrude on something like that. It'd just be weird."

"It wouldn't be that-"

"And it'd be awkward, too. I mean, you aren't going to forget the fact that I was hired to kill you by something that killed people you loved. If you really face it, you're not comfortable enough with who I am. You'd never be able to trust me."

"I would try-"

"I can't live with attempts. It's all or nothing for me." You walk over to him and place your hand on his. "We go our separate ways. It's better that way."

"You know he's going to be pissed that you didn't kill me."

"Yeah."

"He'll probably try to hunt you down. Kill you, even."

"But you're hunting him, right?"

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean-"

You put a hand over his mouth. "If he ever finds me, I'll see you there."

"But, we're always at least two steps behind him."

"You're two steps behind, I'm always two steps ahead. We're bound to meet up sometime."

He nods. "Yeah, I guess we are."

You smile at him. Kiss the tips of your fingers and wave them in his direction. "Sometime, then." He shakes his head, hides his smile, and you walk out the door.


	11. Chapter 11

**Last disclaimer of this thing. Whew.**

So many thanks to all of you that have read, reviewed, contemplate, even hated. I couldn't have finished without you. I'm debating a second. That is, if I can figure out a plot or something other than one piece of it. No promises, though.

* * *

I watch him and Sam leave the hospital. I have no reason to, but, I feel like I have to.

They're rolling Dean out in a wheelchair, and he's cussing like there's no tomorrow. Sam walks behind the poor candy stripers with a smug smile on his face and the occasional head shake. Anything to see his brother annoyed, I guess.

They're fighting over the keys now. I can barely hear Dean's shouts of outrage at the suggestion his brother drive the first hundred or so miles. I smile. I wonder what it's like to have someone care for you that deeply because Sam's now in the driver's seat letting Dean fend for himself on the other side. I can already tell Dean's trying to figure out a way to handle his bigger little brother, and I kind of miss that I'm not going to get to see it.

But there are things I have to do.

I gather up my navy, canvas bag, sling the strap over my shoulder, hear the comforting metal clink as it hits my side, and head towards their car. I have something for Dean. The heels of my boots hit the asphalt with a resounding thud. Dean looks up when I'm still halfway across the parking lot. He has to have some training, I guess. I had never thought about it until this very second, but there's some intelligence there; even if it is buried beneath a bad boy attitude and a pretty boy smirk.

"Eve." He greets me sullenly as I lean against the black metal of the car.

"I have something for you." His eyes widen at the prospect and I rummage through the pockets of my jacket, finally pulling out the bar of titanium I've been carrying around all this time.

"My phone."

"Yeah. I've had it for a while." I hand it over and he examines it like I've done something to it. "By the way, if a girl named Brianna calls, throw the thing away and run a few states."

He grins and leans beside me. "Worried about me?"

"Nah. You can take care of yourself, but I've grown rather attached to your brother." I laugh as anger momentarily flares in his eyes. "Kidding. Only kidding." But not completely. Sad truth is, I like both of them. But not enough to stick around.

"So you're gone?" he asks quietly.

"You too."

"I couldn't talk you into coming with us?"

"Not in a million years."

"I thought so."

"Yeah." I've never been fond of awkward silences. The again, I've never really dealt with awkward silences. But this silence, this was awkward, and I was ready to leave. "Have a safe drive, Dean."

"Yeah. You too." He looks at me incredulously for a moment. "You are driving?"

"Something like that." I laugh at his frown.

"We could at least give you a ride somewhere. There's a good chance-"

I cut him off with a light kiss on his lips. "I'll see you."

"You will."

A last smile and I'm gone. Off into the sunset. Off into the wilderness. Off into the bus station, anyway. As I leave the hospital parking lot my phone vibrates. I pull the red metal from my pocket. "Yeah?"

"_Eve, how close to Ohio are you?_" Brianna's airy voice carries across the line.

"Pretty close."

"_You bored?_"

I watch the impala pull out onto the street. "Yeah. I'm bored."


End file.
